


Fisticuffs

by the_welsh_woman



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Henry Cavill - Fandom, Henry!Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, Foreplay, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Naughty Sherlock, Reader-Insert, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Shirtless, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_welsh_woman/pseuds/the_welsh_woman
Summary: It should be against the law to pummel such a handsome face! But even as his wife, you can’t talk Sherlock out of bare-knuckle fighting. He loves the thrill way too much, but not more than he loves you.A good dose of Hurt/comfort and some fun, naughty married shenanigans.
Relationships: Henry Cavill/Reader, Henry Cavill/You, Sherlock Holmes X Reader, henry cavill x reader - Relationship, henry cavill x you - Relationship, sherlock holmes x you
Comments: 1
Kudos: 124





	Fisticuffs

**Author's Note:**

> Hi and thanks for reading. You can also find me at thetaoofzoe on tumblr.

As a new revolution in the technology of photography began to emerge and become intrinsically entwined with the advancements in science and medicine, Sherlock was pleased that you had expressed an interest in taking up photography as a feminine pursuit.

He often remarked how he envisioned you making a name for yourself as a woman pioneer in the field and throughout your courtship, he brought related books and pamphlets for your amusement and perusal. His particular encouragement of you did not cease even after he asked for your hand in marriage.

Shortly before the wedding and as a honeymoon gift to you, Sherlock prepared to have a darkroom built in one of the spare rooms at the back of the house into which the two of you planned to move. He had commissioned the renovation in secret and ensured that you remained blissfully unaware of what was happening, keeping it under the guise of merely remodeling the house for his new bride and that the construction would take place whilst the two of you honeymooned in the Cotswolds.

Weeks after having settled into your newly married life, one evening whilst chatting quietly over late tea and cake, Sherlock had risen from his chair, taken you by the hand and led you to where the house smelt of new cedar and fresh wallpaper paste. When he opened the door and pulled you inside, you couldn't help gasping with delight as you surveyed the large room. Whilst Sherlock had not taken it upon himself to furnish or stock the room, as he professed to knowing absolutely nothing about the technology (which you knew was a lie, but you let him have it), he had made sure that the space was usable. There was a door at one end of the room that led to the darkroom and at the other end, by the french doors that led to a small walled off garden was little area where you could have subjects come in to pose for a portrait.

'I intend to have this be a purely scientific pursuit,' you'd told him, and when his fond expression told you that he didn't believe you, you laughed and put your arms round his neck to steal a kiss.

Maybe not /purely/ scientific, you thought. A little extra mad money from a few portraits couldn't hurt.

So you thanked your husband, gathered your skirts, darted up the stairs to the master bedroom shouting that you just had to thank him properly and the only way to do it was to be pressed into the mattress beneath him.

Sherlock was an enthusiastic and generous lover that you ran out of reasons to make love with him outside of just wanting to feel his elegant fingers inside you and his lips on your tender skin.

**

Most evenings after dinner, you could usually be found in that room either developing film, studying new techniques or taking photos of yourself as a test subject.

And, that one cool spring evening in April was no different. You had become engrossed with dismantling and rebuilding the mahogany and brass plate camera and hadn't noticed the time. Sherlock had been out at the gentleman's society club and the sound of the front door opening and then closing echoed through the house. 

You looked up from your work and listened, hearing Sherlock's familiar tread on the front room floorboards. He sounded like he was coming in your direction and you immediately placed your hands against your hair to ensure that you didn't look as tired and frazzled as you felt. Heaving yourself up from the floor with a low groan, you stood, stretched and leaned over to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror that sat in it's gold frame on the floor across the room.

Dusting off the skirts of your tea dress, you went to greet him at the door, ready to kiss and welcome him home. Then the footsteps turned round and went in the other direction towards his study at the front of the house.

You felt disappointed, but it gave you some time to go to your wash stand upstairs and freshen up. You powdered, perfumed and re-pinned your hair and pleased with your appearance, you went back downstairs to the study.

The door was slightly ajar which signalled that, if desired, you were welcomed to enter at your leisure. When you pushed opened the door the woodsy scent of his pipe tobacco wafted towards you. Sherlock had not lighted any of the lamps and he sat in his chair by the low fire and smoked.

'Are you all right?' you asked, still standing in the doorway.

You kept your tone low and solicitous, for if he was in a foul mood, you didn't want to exacerbate it.

Sherlock's long, deep sigh was audible over the low crackling of the fire.

'I'm fine, darling,' he said sounding infinitely weary.

You closed the door, walked to the hearth and striking a match, you touched the yellow and orange flame to the white rectangular oil lamp wick. It spluttered a bit before as the oil soaked material ignited and you slid the glass chimney into place.

The warm light filled the small room and as you tossed the match into the fire, you turned to your husband.

'Sherlock!' you cried, dropping to your knees by the chair and grabbing his cool hands which were bruised across the knuckles. 'What happened to your face!?'

In the glow of the lamp, you could now see a darkening bruise streaking across his cheekbone and another blooming around the corner of his mouth. His lower lip was split and bloody and you took personal offense that someone had the gall to pummel Sherlock's perfect face.

'Oh darling,' you cooed, reaching up to cup his cheek, and like a trained pup, Sherlock leaned his face into your touch, grimacing a little to show you that it still pained him. 'What have you gotten into? Were you out defending my honour?'

This earned a soft chuckle and he pressed his big hand over yours against his face.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and you knew that he was gathering his words to exactly describe the dastardly situation and how he had to fight his way out of it.

'I ... Mycroft and I went to one of the sporting rooms this evening and I-- engaged in a boxing match.'

You sat back on your heels and stared incredulously up at him and it took a moment for a surprised laugh to wriggle its way up from your throat and out of your mouth.

Your respectable level headed husband had spent his evening in a combat pen with a brutish man!

'Oh,' you continued to giggle fondly. 'My darling boy.'

Rising, you leaned in to kiss the top of his head before leaving the study, to retrieve the Strickland's arnica salve. You also mixed a little bit of whiskey and water tossed a clean towel over your shoulder and brought all items back to where Sherlock sat slumped in his chair.

You tutted softly and ruffled your fingers through his hair.

'Poor boy,' you murmured, handing him the small brandy which he took gratefully and swallowed down immediately.

You started to move away in order to fetch the low stool that you used to reach books on the higher shelves when Sherlock grabbed you by the wrist.

'Sit on my lap,' he said, eyes slyly bright and eager in the undulating lamplight.

'And, how do you expect for me to treat your wounds?' you asked playfully, sweeping your skirts aside and delicately perching yourself on one muscular thigh. "Whilst sat on your ever so inviting lap?'

Sherlock rested his hand on your lower back and let his head loll back against the high backed chair.

He encouraged you with a warm smile. 'I'm sure you will have no trouble figuring it out.'

'I think you want to be naughty in your infirm state.'

Sherlock chuckled.

'And you would deny me your tender care?'

You made a show of wriggling against his thigh to make yourself comfortable and then cleaned his face with the water moist end of the towel. Sherlock hissed with discomfort and you cooed softly with sympathy.

'Of course not, darling, however, I do wonder how the other man looks.'

Sherlock popped one eye open to look up at you.

He tried to smile but winced as the motion reopened the split in his lower lip.

Seeing this, you frowned a little and leaned in to lightly touch your lips to his.

'Stay still. No smiling, darling.'

And then as if on cue, his lips curved into a smile and he grunted miserably, flicking his tongue out to lick at the deep red slash.

'I said no smiling!'

You laughed and continued to clean his face and then opened the small tin of arnica salve which was proven to treat surface contusions and bruises. With light fingers, you applied a thin layer of the grease along his cheekbone and then another layer to the purple and red bloom beneath the skin around the corner of his mouth.

Smiling a little, you enjoyed the silence that fell between you as you gently, massaged the arnica into his bruises until the skin absorbed it. You could see that it was comforting him as the wrinkles between his brows smoothed and calmed. Sherlock had long ago put aside his small glass and had worked his hand beneath your skirts and was absently stroking your bare thigh between your stockings and drawers.

'There,' you murmured and leaned in to kiss his temple. 'Right as rain. I ah, take it that you won your match?'

'Of course,' said Sherlock, sounding cocky and pleased with himself.

The warmth of pride rose in your chest.

Lowering your voice, you eased your fingers into his hair, 'Of course. And, how should my champion be rewarded?'

When he chuckled like a delighted little boy, you mirrored his pleasure.

You knew exactly what your beloved husband was going to suggest, but something exciting seized you.

Pressing the cap back onto the arnica salve, you gingerly got up from his lap, gathered your first aid items, and left the study. When you didn't return quickly, you heard Sherlock call out to you, beckoning you to come back. But, instead of returning to his side, you went to your own photography studio. Leaving the door open, you cupped a hand to your mouth and called, 'Sherlock! Come along, dear.'

It didn't take long for him to appear in the corridor and then make his way to where you stood in the doorway of the back room.

He glanced around the room curiously. He didn't generally make a habit of disturbing your private sanctuary uninvited and you could see that he was impressed with how the room was coming along. You smiled and rubbed your thumb across his cheek.

'I want to capture your...' you paused, teeth pressing down into your lower lip as you mentally searched for the word, before dropping your shoulders and lifting both your tightly clenched fists in a boxer's ready stance, scowling to show your intent.

Excitement sparked in his face and you laughed at your own antics, glad that your idea had not fallen flat in his opinion.

Snapping back into your usual perky self, you grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the room. Kicking the door shut, you ushered Sherlock to the small alcove where the portrait area had been set up, complete with painted canvas background detailing a pastoral view.

You positioned a slightly smiling Sherlock in front of the canvas and scurried to fetch the only other camera that was not in pieces on the floor.

It was a small handheld wood box and you carried it carefully back to where your husband stood waiting.

'Go on,' you giggled. 'We want you to look like a proper fighter. Off with your waistcoat and shirt.'

You watched him greedily, eagerly when he began to undress without complaint and a sigh of satisfaction escaped your lips when he was finally bare to the waist. Unobtrusively, you clenched your fingers at the sight of him. Sherlock was beautiful, strong, and decidedly masculine and you were seized with the desire to run your fingers through the hair on his broad chest.

You were sure that Sherlock was keenly aware of your appraisal of him. He was aware of everything when it came to you and you felt hot and suddenly aroused.

'How did I get so lucky with this handsome boy!' you cried and lifted the camera so that you could look down into the eyepiece and get the beautiful specimen of a man in focus.

However, although Sherlock allowed you to take a few photographs of him in his fighting form, he had other ideas. He walked towards you, reaching out for the camera with one hand and fitting his big hand about the back of your neck with the other. You let out a soft sweet breath and lifted yourself to kiss him. Vaguely, you heard him place the camera safely on one of the work tables

His deft fingers made short work of the buttons running down the front of your pale blue tea dress. You had only been wearing a simple chemise and not your stays beneath the dress and you were pleased to see him smile to find you soft and unbound beneath your clothes.

You pushed into his arms again kissing him, tangling your fingers in his curls to drag him down more possessively. Sherlock crouched just a little and swept you up into his arms much to your squealing delight.

'Yes, darling,' you cooed, cupping his face and kissing him gently. 'Go and claim the reward I promised.'

'I shall indeed,' Sherlock answered, sounding greedy as he carried you up to your shared bedroom.


End file.
